


Catch

by gloriousthorn



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Baseball, M/M, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousthorn/pseuds/gloriousthorn
Summary: The communication between a catcher and a pitcher is subtle and inscrutable.  One needs to be attentive to small things: shifts of the shoulders, tilts of the head to one side or the other.  What had come first, Alex wondered some nights when he couldn’t sleep, their game or their bond?  Was there a flicker from the first time they met, before he’d ever thrown the first practice pitch to him, or was it just a matter of all those throws and catches, the space between them eventually closing to nothing?





	Catch

**Author's Note:**

> I know extremely little about baseball and basically never write m/m stories, so forgive me for any flaws on either front, please.

A shimmer of heat, even in the late evening, rose off the cornfield, beyond the walls of the ballpark. The lights had just come on, with a great metallic sound like a man actually pulling a giant lever somewhere in the recesses below the stands, but the sun still hung just over the press box and was probably getting into Andrew’s eyes. Every so often, the cries of the cicadas roared up from somewhere to Alex’s east, then settled back into the wild. The crowd itself had been growing quieter between the forced cheer of the organ interludes as the inning had begun to slip through Andrew’s fingers, and as Andrew fidgeted on the mound, Alex made the call, signaling to the manager and then the ump for a time out. He lifted his catcher’s mask and trotted out to the mound.

Andrew was waiting for him, clapping the ball into his mitt and looking out on the cornfield. “Hey,” Alex said, “you okay?”

“I’m good,” he said shortly.

“Eh, you’re 0-for-2 on these last two hitters. I’d rather not see the bases get loaded.”

“Take me out.”

“Can’t. Cody’s only been warming up since the top of the inning.”

“What was he doing back there?”

“I’ve got theories.”

“Never mind.”

“So here we are. You have to finish the inning.”

Andrew sighed. “Any ideas?”

“Throw it a little high and outside. He’d almost as tall as you, wants to make it a pissing contest. He’s gonna swing and swing at those ones that go just a little high. That’ll take care of him. Then just watch me for the next guy.”

Andrew nodded, shook his arms out.

“Watch me.”

“I will.”

“Hey. There’s no need to be so rattled. I’ve got you, yeah?”

Andrew finally met his eyes, gazing down at him from beneath his cap. “You could have just signaled me that,” he said, a sheepish smile coming across his face, his shoulders relaxing. “Why did you come out here?”

Alex grinned. “Felt like I could use a break.”

Andrew grinned back. “That’s it, huh?”

“Eh. Felt like you could use one too. Maybe a little pep talk.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Later.”

“Later.” Alex pulled the mask back over his face and loped back to home plate, where the batter was pacing around the bag. Well, he could wait. He looked at the batter a little longer than necessary, nodded over to the manager, and squatted back down.

He watched Andrew hold the mitt in front of his face for a moment, take a deep breath. They’d smell it on each other later: the leather and the tanner’s oil; the dirt, the freshly mown grass; the sticky sweetness of the humid July evening.  _ Easy there, Alex, stay focused,  _ he told himself. He’d told Andrew to throw high; he’d need to be ready to spring up on his toes, seize the ball from the air.

The throw was beautiful, just like they’d talked about. He caught it cleanly.

“Strike one,” the ump called.

Alex nodded at Andrew. Neither of them dared smile, but Andrew nodded back. 

The communication between a catcher and a pitcher is subtle and inscrutable. One needs to be attentive to small things: shifts of the shoulders, tilts of the head to one side or the other. What had come first, Alex wondered some nights when he couldn’t sleep, their game or their bond? Was there a flicker from the first time they met, before he’d ever thrown the first practice pitch to him, or was it just a matter of all those throws and catches, the space between them eventually closing to nothing? 

Alex gave him the signal:  _ He’s digging in his heels. Another one just like it, yeah? _

He watched him wind up and throw another one just like it.

They struck the batter out, and the next two, and salvaged the inning. Andrew made way for the reliever to the sound of applause. Behind the mask, Alex smiled.

*

The team had to get straight on the bus after the game and ride through the night; no time for more than quick showers, hasty changes of clothes into basketball shorts and sneakers and t-shirts from small town bars and farm supply stores. Andrew always went all the way to the back, claiming to need the leg room. One night, long ago, Alex joined him, and then every night on the bus after that. If anyone noticed, they never said anything. They were a winning team, after all, and baseball players are a superstitious lot.

Once the lights were out, Alex would lay his head on Andrew’s shoulder; Andrew would lay his head on Alex’s, and they would bring their breathing into sync. They’d share a pair of earbuds playing something low and ambient, usually Alex’s choice, and as the bus rumbled across countrysides they practiced speaking without speaking.

That night: a nuzzle of a stubbled chin.  _ Thanks for today. _

A satisfied shudder.  _ I told you I’d have you, didn’t I. _

_ I know. _

_ Well, then. _

Andrew laced his arm around Alex’s shoulder. He lifted his head in surprise, looked up at Andrew.

_ You’ve never done that. _

_ Is it okay? _

Alex nodded.  _ Yeah. Of course. _

_ Good. _

He put his head back down, the gentle thrum of bass pulsing in one ear and Andrew’s heartbeat in the other; the soft whistles of the rest of the team breathing around them, the cicadas in the field, a whole world of life and their own language in the middle of it.

  
  



End file.
